Tales from the Dark Millennium
by Colonel-Mustard1990
Summary: A collection of one-shots for the 40K universe. T for violence in some, may vary.
1. Mother

**Preface: **This is a collection of various one-shots set in the 40K-verse. Some of these you might have seen before, and I've put them all here for posterity's sake, but there's at least one piece in here that hasn't seen FF before. So, if you've read these, then just skip ahead to the end. If not, please sit back and enjoy. Largely, the rating is T, though if things get nastier for later stories I'll leave a warning.

Mother

The compact black box was placed on the table within the cell, and the button at its top pressed.

"Recording begins. Interview with Callidus Subject 1377-Aquila. Date is 13.12.999.M41, local time thirteen forty six. Thought for the day; blessed are the ignorant. Subject 13-"

"That is not my name."

"We have been over this. You are Callidus Subject 1377-Aquila. You do not have a name."

"My name is Herena Pahrris."

"It is not. Herena Pahrris was the name of a member of the Children of the Striped Star who you killed, and whose identity you took in order to infiltrate them. You are Callidus Subject 1377-Aquila"

"I am also Herena Pahrris."

"Subject 1377, we have been over this several times now. You are not Herena Pahrris."

"I _was_ not Herena Pahrris. Now I am."

A sigh.

"Subject 1377, perhaps we should start from the beginning of this. Could you tell me your assignment?"

"If you insist. I was sent to the hive world Akmar III, where there had been reports of the pro-democracy cult known as the Children of the Striped Star, so named after the emblem of a democratic nation of Ancient Terra, causing disturbance. I was ordered to infiltrate the cult by taking the identity of one of its middle-ranking members and using her position to gain access to the leaders, and assassinate them."

"Very good, Subject 1377; I am glad that your recall of events is still correct. Would you care to tell me about the Herena Pahrris you killed."

"She worked as a member of the Adeptus Administratum. She had two children, a ten year old boy named Almon, and a twelve year old girl named Sarsah. Her husband had been killed in an accident in a train, and she worked extra hours in order to maintain their home."

"And this individual was not you, you do realise."

"I do. What has happened to Almon and Sarsah?"

"We detained them along with you."

"Are they hurt?"

"They are unharmed."

"Good. They had nothing to do with the Striped Star; I can testify on their behalf."

"How do we know you aren't lying, Subject 1377?"

"I am still a loyal servant of the Emperor, and had they been part of it then I would condemn them. I am simply concerned for my children."

"They are not your children, Subject 1377. They are the children of Herena Pahrris. She is dead. You killed her."

"They are my children, Interrogator. I helped them with Scholam work, I held them when they had nightmares, I comforted them when they were sick or hurt. I may not have been their biological mother, but I was mother to them after she died. I looked just like her, I acted just like her, and they did not know the difference."

"Indeed. I believe they are quite upset to discover that the person who looked after them for the last six months was not, despite their beliefs to the contrary, their mother. If you wished them no harm, you would have not fostered an emotional bond at such a deep level with them."

"That was the fault of the Officio Assassinorium, Interrogator."

"Really? How?"

"After a week in their ranks, I accessed their leaders and assassinated them, as ordered, and the Adeptus Arbites dealt with the remaining members. I then called for extraction. None came."

"So you kept your cover? That's what started this off?"

"I kept my cover, yes. I looked after my children, and continued to behave as an ordinary citizen would. I waited for extraction, yet nothing happened."

"And that would be where the emotional bond started to form, of course. Yet one question remains outstanding, Subject 1377; you claim you're still loyal to the Emperor, but yet when Inquisitorial agents arrived to pick you up, you tried to evade them."

"I was worried for Almon and Sarsah; I feared you would hurt them if you found them, so I drew your men away."

"You certainly drew some suspicion; we were concerned that you had gone rogue."

"I am still loyal to the Emperor."

"So you keep saying, but a rogue Callidus Assassin is an extremely dangerous creature indeed. We were worried our hypno-briefing had failed, that somehow you had come round to the cult's beliefs, even if you had helped destroy them."

"I simply wished to keep Almon and Sarsah safe. Interrogator, my mission is complete; you can wipe the memory of them from my mind in the next hypno-briefing if you so wish, and I shall find whatever target you assign to me next and kill them."

"It is not that simple, I am afraid. The hypno-briefings do not work without the consent of the one being hypnotised; while you still have an attachment to Pahrris' children, you will not be properly indoctrinated, and may be compromised. We need you to let go of them, Subject 1377."

"I cannot do that, Interrogator."

"Indeed. You know, parental instincts are one of the hardest things to wipe from the human psyche; we brief you assassins with the Imperium's most advanced methods of brainwashing, yet here you are, forming emotional attachments to children that are not even yours."

"They are my-"

"As much as you insist they are, they are not. They never were. You were simply supposed to play the role of their mother."

"What do you want, then?"

"You to let go. You know, Subject 1377, this is not the first time you have done this."

"What?"

"You have formed emotional bonds to a child before. We wiped the incident from your memory, but clearly the problem was worse than we thought. You're becoming a liability."

"I am simply concerned for my children."

"They are not your children, Subject 1377. They never were. Let them go, or we will have to terminate you. And we will also terminate them."

"What happens to them if I forget them?"

"They will be taken in by the Schola Progenium. Trained as heroes, some of the greatest servants of the Imperium. It is what any good, Emperor fearing mother would want."

"Very well then. As long as they are safe, I will let them go."

"I am glad you saw sense, Subject 1377. We will begin the hypno-briefing for your next mission immediately."

"Thank you, Interrogator."

"A pleasure."

The button on the box was pressed, and the recording stopped. The Interrogator stood, picked it up, and left the cell, 1377 Alpha waiting inside.

"She's convinced," he said to grey-carapaced storm trooper standing outside.

"Understood. What about the children, sir?"

"Oh, them? They're no use to anyone. Have them killed."

FIN


	2. Gather the Faithful

My attempt at penning a hymn that would be appropriate for the fanatical insanity of the Imperium. First of a couple of these. Do enjoy!

Gather the Faithful

The Emperor calls for you this day

And in his name, you shall obey

There is but one thing you can say

And that is; 'I shall come!'

So take your rifle, take your blade

His will shall always be obeyed

It is to see the traitor slayed

For you, my lord, we shall

So gather up thy righteous rage

For now it is mankind's age

We shall shatter heresy's cage

With blessed wrath and hate

We shall never doubt or falter

Their dead shall be our Lord's altar

We shall reject the xenos' halter

And slay all heretics!

So with his might and with His grace

We ensure the rise of the human race

We shall never halt our pace

Until we have triumphed

The faithful shall weep joyful tears

As they realise that vict'ry nears

The heretic and traitor fears

The wrath of those who serve!

So gather all the faithful round

As we force the foe to the ground

Our prayers shall make such a sound

As we march ever on!

So have the banners be unfurled

In His name we shall take this world

Into the dark, the foe are hurled

Purged with holy fire!

So take your rifle, take your blade

His will shall always be obeyed

It is to see the traitor slayed

For you, my lord, we shall!

For you, my lord, we shall!


	3. Stasis

A 40K fairy tale, but not one for the kiddies...

Stasis

_Once upon a time in a kingdom far, far away, a beautiful princess lived._

She ran, boots near-skidding on the tiled floor. Behind, skittering on razor claws, the beasts of the Aetherwynd came, baying furiously as they attempted to catch up to their prey. She drew to a halt, one eye closing as she sighted down on one of the twisted animals with her bolt pistol. It barked, diamantine tipped shells ripping through the translucent skin and into the warped mess of muscle and sinew before detonating within. Twelve shots, and the pack was downed, gore, entrails and greenish-blue blood splattered across the corridor before her.

_Through nations far and wide, her beauty was talked of and admired, and hundreds of suitors flocked to the kingdom so they might win her hand in marriage._

"There she is! Stop her!"

She turned down another corridor as the soldiers of the Aetherwynd spotted her, their own boots thudding on the floor as they pursued, rusted lasrifles and hooked blades gripped in gnarled hands. She was beginning to tire, knowing that she would be out of energy long before she was out of this place. Even as she raised her bolt pistol to fire back, shells sparking across the walls, downing a man and forcing the rest to duck away, buying her a few precious moments, she knew that she could not last much longer.

_But there were those who grew jealous of her beauty. A wicked old witch, a woman whose heart had grown gnarled and stony by her evil ways, came to the kingdom and demanded that the princess grant her some measure of her fairness. The princess refused._

She was close. Soon, she would be there, and then she would be safe from that bitch and her minions long enough to formulate a plan to actually get out. Even as more of the thuggish Aetherwynd soldiers came behind her, she knew she would get out, her innate talents guiding her through corridors towards her destination. The occasional lasbeam or auto-round zipped against the floor by her, scorching holes into the carpet, but she paid them no heed. She was too close to be phased by such a thing.

She finally reached them, a set of great adamantium doors. Hurriedly, she tapped the code into the console, even as she raised her bolt pistol to cover her retreat from the soldiers following close behind. The shells roared free, opening the guts of one man and shattering the skull of another, before the doors rumbled open. A final bolt round detonated within the console before she hurried through. Swiftly, she went to the one on the other side, pressed the code once more, and the door rumbled closed.

_Enraged at the rejection, the wicked witch gathered her black powers and placed a hex upon the castle. Immediately, all within fell into a deep slumber, from the lowliest kitchen maid to the princess' father, the king himself. With no ruler, the kingdom fell to the rule of a steward, and none dared enter the castle for fear of falling under its curse as well._

The archives. She was within, safe. The outer world, the Aetherwynd's soldiers, were sealed away, kept at bay by ancient technosorceries built into the very walls by the architects of this palace many aeons ago. She had the only means to open the doors, and even the magics of the Aetherwynd would not be enough to penetrate the wards guarding this place any time soon.

"Lady Inquisitor," a voice rasped across the speaker by the door. "I am afraid your attempts at flight have done you no good."

"Don't bother blustering, Comalrech," Lady Inquisitor Ahlyss replied. "The archives are sealed, and not even your mistress with be able to break them."

"Just give us the information we want, Lady Inquisitor," Comalrech replied. "Or we shall break in there and torture it out of you."

"By the time you have broken in here I will either have escaped or starved to death," Ahlyss replied. "You will not have the codes from me; tell your beloved whore that you will never have the time to get to me."

"Time? It is a funny thing you mention that, Lady Inquisitor."

"I fail to see what is so amusing, Comalrech. Boast and bluster all you want down that little microphone of yours, but I have access to artefacts that predate the Imperium down here, and I fully intend to use them. This place won't hold me for long, while it will keep you at bay for an age."

"Indeed, Lady Inquisitor, but you would only be able to use them if you had the time to do so. Unfortunately for you, while you destroyed the only way in and out, you did not managed to disable all external controls. In fact, there is an emergency stasis control that may be used to hold the vaults in suspension in case of some sort of crisis."

"What? Where did you find that?"

"What does it matter, Lady Inquisitor. It will take us some time to get to you, I know, but for you, it was seem as if none has passed at all."

"You'll pay for this, you ba-"

#

_The suitors of the princess fled, and the tales of her beauty become nothing more than songs of bards. But one day, one hundred years later, a handsome prince heard of the story of the sleeping castle, and vowed to set out and wake her, so he might make her his bride._

"We cannot lose that vault; the fate of this war, of the entire sector, depends on this."

The man who said this was a razor thin individual, a whipcord of a man in every sense. Not one ounce of him was fat, his body composed seemingly of raw sinew and nothing else. Even his grey moustache was a thin, carefully trimmed thing, while his scalp was shaved bald.

"Agreed," the giant standing with him around the table said, with a voice deep and dark as an ocean. "By extension, we cannot lose Lady Inquisitor Ahlyss; she is the only one who knows the access codes for the technologies within the vault, and should the enemy retrieve them from her then we are in dire peril. Controlling the vaults is of secondary importance."

"Indeed, Knight-Lord," a third man said. He was swathed in crimson robes, mechandrites snaking from his back, while the face beneath the hood was of metal and lenses and grilles. "Though the Mechanicus believe that it is of greater importance to obtain the artefact access themselves; think of the relics within, the might the Imperium could gain!"

"And if we are not careful with such a boon, then such a thing could well be turned against us," Knight-Lord Methuselah Crowlin, commander of the Sons of Thunder First Company replied. With a whir, he turned to face the Magos, the auto-muscles in his terminator armour allowing him to shift the hundredweights of adamantium and ceramite with ease. "Better they are sealed to all for eternity and their technology lie dormant than be allowed to fall into the foe's grasp; such a thing would be catastrophic."

"Perhaps, Knight-Lord, though I would beg to differ," Magos Krynn grated. "I will agree, however, that we cannot let the enemy take the vaults."

"General Loras, how long a time frame do you think we have?" Crowlin asked. "Lady Inquisitor Ahlyss has access to some highly advanced technology in the vaults; she is a resourceful woman, and I would be unsurprised to see her enact an escape."

"I will answer that question," Magos Krynn said, before Loras could answer. "I still have checks planted into the palace's system, and I regret to say that they have found a way to activate the vault's external stasis modules. Now that the palace is in the control of the Aetherwynd, they will no doubt be attempting to access it, and the Lady Inquisitor will be unable to escape."

"Then we will have to get her out," Loras said. "Damn these Aetherwynd scum, but we've no way to reach the palace in time with half the city under their control. What of your Terminators, Knight-Lord? Do you think you could launch a strike against the palace?"

"We would be up against more than twelve million soldiers, well dug in and disciplined, supported by armour and daemon engines," Crowlin replied. "My men are some of the finest in the Imperium, each worth a thousand of the foe, but there are only fifty of them; there is no way even they would be able to fight through them all, nor can we commit my forces there without our western flank folding entirely. If I am frank, it was a miracle the palace held against the Aetherwynd as long as it did."

"That said, we still need to extract Ahlyss," Loras said. "We cannot simply stand idly by."

"It may be possible for an individual or small group to move in on the palace, deactivate stasis and retrieve Lady Inquisitor Ahlyss," Krynn said. "I calculate that a strategic drop on the palace would stand the best chance of success."

"I will go," Crowlin said.

"Alone?" Krynn said.

"Alone," Crowlin replied. "I am wearing tactical dreadnought armour, am one of the most skilled warriors of the Sons of Thunder, and a successful one man assault on the palace would improve morale greatly. In any case, Division Commander Alkem or Infantry Commander Raeslei should be able to command in my absence."

"Do you think you can do this, Knight-Lord?"

"I do. I will embark the Oncoming Storm, we will fly over the palace and I shall board by drop pod."

"How soon?"

"Immediately."

#

_So the prince rode many leagues across the land upon his noble steed, stopping only to briefly rest, until he reached the castle of the princess._

"Blessed are the men who serve the Emperor."

The blade purred as it span, the circle of razor teeth spinning with speed to slice through the thickest of stone with ease, and reduce flesh and armour to mere paste.

"Most beloved by him, are his angels, those who rebuke their humanity to serve it."

A heavy gauntlet slid the cocking handle of his storm bolter back, while a quick glance up ahead showed that the drop pod's own servitor guided pod was active, scanning for threats even within the confines of the vehicle.

"I am a Son of Thunder, harbinger of the Emperor's righteous justice, herald of the doom of mankind's enemies."

His fingers flexed on the handle of the immense circular saw he carried. For near five centuries he had carried it into battle, since his first taste of combat upon beloved Polyphemus. It had run slick with the blood of trogs on the day that the Sons had found him, and since then he had kept it, modifying the weapon with care over much time. He was quite sure that, with replacements to its casing, its blade, addition to the power field he had added, not one part of it was the same weapon he had swung upon Polyphemus, but he cared for the device nonetheless, and even after all this time could feel the machine spirit's pride at its unique, elevated position.

"I am the oncoming storm, the scion of Polyphemus and Terra."

He could hear the patter of anti air fire against the sides of the drop pod, airburst shells exploding around it, but he paid it no real concern; either it would kill him or it would not, and he would be powerless to stop it. Worrying about such a thing was a worthless exercise.

"I am the lightning of His wrath."

The altimeter in the drop pod showed only a few hundred metres remained. Not much longer now.

"I am the thunder of His hate."

The pod screamed down, and hit.

#

_Finally, after many days of riding, the handsome prince reached the palace. But many years had passed since the wicked witch's curse, and a great barrier of thorns and brambles had sprung up around it, forbidding entry to the castle._

It was hideous.

If it weren't for the fact that his scarred face was affixed in a permanent sneer, the work of an Eldar Harlequin's razor-edged blade, Methuselah Crowlin would have scowled at the sight before him as he stepped out of the confines of the drop pod. In an instant, his eyes had taken in the corpse-draped crenellations before him, barbed wire and runes smeared in blood adorning the walls. The gun batteries that had held the heretics of the Aetherwynd at bay for so long had been adorned with spikes and blades, crewed by soldiers wearing masks of crude human leather. Crowlin cursed; he had hoped the machine spirit of the drop pod would guide him within its walls, not drop him without.

No matter. He would triumph. The Emperor always did, in the end.

Above his head, the servitor-controlled storm bolter of the drop pod clattered into life, sending shells streaming towards the enemy position. There was a crumping noise as they exploded amongst enemy positions, and Crowlin raised his own storm bolter and darted forwards, his own shots far more accurate than that of the servitor's.

The heavy weapons were bought to bear, and the drop pod exploded as the last rounds of the storm bolter's clip were expended, but it had proved to be enough of a distraction for Crowlin to get below their guns.

The walls before him were of thick basalt, impenetrable to all but the largest of guns, layered with adamantium and with at least a metre of thick stone between him and the rest of the palace. But Crowlin had a mining saw with him, a machine designed to slice and pulverise rock, one able to slice through even the strongest Polypheman granite. Equipped with a power field and a blade that had been forged by the finest Forge Priests of the Sons of Thunder, it was all but unstoppable.

It screamed into life, lightning crackling around the circular blade as Crowlin raised it and hacked down. Sparks showered around it as it sliced downwards, stone reduced to liquid by the heat and power field, before he cut a line the size of a man out of the wall. Three more strokes, three more sprays of sparks, and a block of stone about his size had been pulverised out of his way. Another few strokes and he was already three quarters of the way through the thick basalt of the wall.

Scanning the outer walls for signs of the lone Terminator, the heretics of the Aetherwynd had no idea what was about to befall them before the wall below them crashed in.

_The handsome prince drew his shining blade and sliced a path through the great thicket of thorns. Once within, he proceeded with great care, making sure not to wake any of those who slept who were not the princess, for the witch had, in her wickedness, commanded terrible monsters to watch over those who slept and to leap upon whoever tried to wake them._

Panicked shouts came up as Crowlin emerged, his storm bolter already up and blazing as he punched men from the walls. Without the cover the walls provided, the ammunition stores that supplied the gun batteries were directly in his line of sight, and Crowlin smiled beneath his bullish helm. He switched aim, precise shots from his storm bolter slamming into crates of ammo, the .75 calibre bullets detonating lascannon charges, autocannon rounds and heavy duty artillery shells. Explosions rippled across the walls, throwing heretics away from them, wrecking artillery pieces and cannons.

The gates to the palace were ahead of him, pocked and scarred by the assault of the heavy weapons the Aetherwynd had used to take them, and they swung open before him. Heretic soldiers armed with trophy-adorned lasrifles and autoguns poured out, opening fire, but Crowlin simply laughed beneath his helmet. Those rounds that managed to pass his shields instead glanced off the thick plate of his armour, he stomped forwards, unnaturally swift despite the weight of the terminator armour he wore. His storm bolter raised, return fire punching past the flimsy flak vests worn by the Aetherwynd's soldiers, shells detonating within their guts, chests and skulls and reducing the soldiers wearing them to chunks of worthless meat.

His saw screamed, and the Knight-Lord charged, tearing into the front ranks of the foe before him. Sweeping swings sliced through flesh and flak armour, crackling power field melting muscle and bone, blood boiling away as the blade tore into arteries and veins. Stomachs were opened, guts spilt upon the courtyard only to be stomped to pulp by Crowlin's white boots. Swiftly, he tore through the squad of Aetherwynd soldiers before the gate, deadly speed and nigh-invulnerable armour granting him the power he needed to rend them asunder without a single scar marring his superhuman form.

He ignored the panicked soldiers milling around in the courtyard behind him, footsteps powering him forwards into the hallway.

It looked the worse for wear since he had seen it last, walls marred and pocked with bullet holes, blasphemous runes scrawled across the walls in blood. Hasty heavy weapon emplacements had been thrown up, autocannons, lascannons, missile launchers and heavy bolters, and they opened fire as soon as Crowlin slaughtered his way across the threshold. He noted them in a split second and immediately dove behind a column as they fired, psychoconditioned mind swiftly formulating a plan, picking choice bits of knowledge from his extensive experience of the battlefield. Noting the weapons were in no cover, he loaded hellfire shells into his bolter, cocked the slide back, and moved.

He sprang across the open hallway, his unnatural speed unimpeded by his terminator armour's synthetic muscles, aim with his storm bolter absolutely deadly even with the speed he was moving.

High explosive hellfire shells roared from his storm bolter, detonating amongst the enemy's ranks in great blasts of flame and shrapnel. Bodies were shredded and flesh roasted, while weapons were scrapped by the explosions roaring around them. A stun grenade was sent flying from the launcher built into his saw, burning phosphor blinding opponents while a wave of pure noise deafened them, even as the lenses and ear defenders of his terminator armour darkened and dulled the blinding heat, allowing him to move unimpeded. He was among them in moments, saw rising and falling with deadly skill, shredding the enemy.

He did not stay to gloat once the threat was dealt with, nor to collect any trophies or loot from the bodies that were scattered across the cracked marble floor. Instead, he headed into the heart of the palace, towards where he knew the vaults would be, through the shattered armoured doors that would have otherwise sealed it off. In a strange way, he was fortunate that the Aetherwynd had already stormed this place before him; it made his moving though the palace far easier.

"There he is!" a call came up as he turned a corner in the corridors, homing relentlessly towards his destination. "Kill him!"

There was a baying and the sound of claws skittering on marble, before the hounds of the Aetherwynd rounded a corner. They were ugly things, warped messes of muscle and translucent skin, overlarge teeth hanging from unnaturally elongated jaws, acidic drool dripping from each fang. Crowlin squeezed the activation trigger of his saw, the blade wailing as it span, before he raised it into a guarding stance.

The first of the pack reached him, overlarge mouth open wide to bite, and leapt. Crowlin's blade swung down, slicing through its jaw and the back of its skull, catching it on the cover of the blade's motor and throwing it to once side. The backstroke bisected a second hound, leaving it whimpering and bleeding on the floor, while he smashed the stock of his storm bolter down on the skull of a third, leaving it limp on the floor.

Teeth clashed on the armour of his thigh, bone cracking against ceramite, and Crowlin brought his elbow down atop its skull, knocking it away. He stamped down on it before it could rise, swinging at one of its packmates with his saw as he did so, slicing across its throat and belly. A raised forearm halted another leaping hound before its jaws could close on his helm, knocking it away to tumble to the ground.

He surged forwards, legs kicking against houndflesh and knocking the Aetherwynd's baying dogs aside, swings from his weapon rending and slashing. Bays of fury turned to whimpers of terrified pain, and crimson lasbeams glanced against his form from the platoon of soldiers that had sent the hounds forwards as they realised their sickening pets were going have no effect against him. Several of the creatures were skewered by shots from their own sides, and Crowlin took advantage of their confusion, barrelling forwards towards the foe.

A blast from a grenade launcher slammed against his left pauldron, a hairline crack running down the golden shoulder pad, and Crowlin cursed the heretic that fired the weapon. As he carved into the soldiers before him, saw rising and falling in a graceful dance that saw human flesh fall away from bone like snow beneath rain, he reflected that perhaps he had been fortunate; that had been a krak grenade, designed for punching through the armour of light tanks, and had it landed but a few inches differently Crowlin would be minus both an arm and a storm bolter.

The weapon in question was raised almost unconsciously as he broke past the melee, shells streaming into the small knot of reinforcements that were coming to support his foes, while his saw blocked a swing from the stock of a lasrifle and sliced the armament in half. A few more swings tore the remaining enemy to bloody ribbons, and he scowled at the foe that lay in gore-soaked ruination before him. Pathetic.

They were trying to slow him, if he had any guess, no doubt trying to desperately crack open the vaults before he arrived to slay them. Throwing knots of soldiers at him across his route was an attempt to snarl his progress no doubt, the heretics of the Aetherwynd attempting to buy themselves time. He would prove their efforts futile.

_Before the princess' chamber, the wicked witch had set the foulest and cruellest of demons to guard them. It tried to halt the handsome prince as he approached the door of the chamber, but he drew his shining blade and a single blow through its black heart slew it with ease._

He went as the Aquila flew, cutting through walls with the spinning blade of his saw, bypassing the various points the Aetherwynd soldiers had set up to check his progress. He ran into a few knots of them, small groups of unfortunates that he tore through with bolter and saw, dicing flesh and bone with lethal skill, but his progress was largely unmolested as he made his way downwards through the palace. His progress of was swift, and soon he reached the floor he needed, smashing through the fragile door without giving the enemy the luxury of forewarning.

Heavy weapons fire roared to greet him across the large cellar hallway, even as he raised his storm bolter in return, bolt shells roaring downrange even as he moved to cover.

A blast of plasma splashed against the floor ahead of him, and the shields of his armour crackled as they fought to avoid overloading against the immense backwash of heat. A blinding beam of iridescent crimson sliced towards him, and he managed to throw himself out of its way before it hit home. He ducked behind a heavy pillar as more heavy weapons fire landed around him, and then his scarred forehead wrinkled into a frown as he began to hear a gently quiet whistling. Swiftly it grew in volume, a breeze gently beginning to tug at his tabard and purity seals, paper fluttering in the wind, and Crowlin cursed as he realised his foe.

"Come out, Knight Lord," a voice called. "Your rescue attempt ends here."

Crowlin snarled quietly as he stepped out.

"Comalrech," he said, eyeing the sorcerer that stood before him. The mask of human leather that the heretic wore, part of the uniform of all the Aetherwynd's soldiery, was more finely wrought than those of the Aetherwynd's warriors around him, as befitting of his status as Wyndbringer, skin stretched over fine porcelain and inlaid with gold leaf, a strange contrast to the general's uniform he wore.

"It is me, yes," the psyker replied, an ethereal ball of energy gathering around the blasphemously runed staff he carried. "I suppose that now is as good as time as any to finish what we started all those weeks ago."

"Indeed," Crowlin said. "I shall look forward to tearing you asunder, Heretic. The Emperor would consider it a most fitting tribute."

The breeze changed, a howling gale that screamed across the hallway, whipping up a storm with the dust and debris that had been dislodged by the heavy weapons of the Aetherwynd's heretical soldiery. Crowlin stood firm against the winds, raising his storm bolter and firing, only for some sorcerous aegis around Comalrech to catch the shells and detonate them before he could fire.

Crowlin stepped forwards as the howling wind picked up its pace, chunks of rubble clattering against his terminator plate, emptying the magazine of his storm bolter into the foe in a bid to wear down his enemy's defences.

Another blast from the plasma cannon smashed into the ground next to him, and Crowlin cursed as he lost his footing, storm bolter skittering away from his grip. He was sent sprawling, the immense weight of his terminator armour not enough to hold him against the screaming gale summoned by Comalrech's magics, and he slammed his saw into the floor, blade slicing into stone before he deactivated it, using it as an anchor to pull himself to his feet.

Those heavy weapons, he decided, would have to be dealt with first; Comarlech's little gale would serve as a distraction, but they were the real threat.

He moved as best he could under the pressure of the wind, pushing himself behind another of the pillars that held the room up. A plasma blast splashed against it, melting stone, but the winds had broken, and Crowlin's scarred face creased into a smile as he realised what he could do.

His saw blade screamed as it bit into the base of the pillar, and he nodded in approval at the lascannon beam, aim thrown by the poor lighting, scored into the top of the pillar, before he sliced along its bottom. He spread his arms, wrapping the column in a bear hug, gripping as best he could, swinging his shoulders in a grunt of effort.

For a moment, nothing happened, synthetic muscles straining, before there was a crack and the thick column toppled. Crowlin guided its falling mass as best he could, before it smashed into the floor in a spray of dust.

He moved, hurrying along its fallen length as more heavy weapon fire slammed into its length, while the wind's howling above him increased in volume. There was the sound of stone scraping against stone, and Crowlin saw the pillar begin to inch forwards. Good, let Comalrech expend more of his energy.

He ducked behind another pillar on the other side of the hall, plasma and lascannon fire glancing against it, before Comalrech ordered; "Stop, you idiots! Don't you see that he'll create another windbreak?"

The winds died down, and Comalrech called out; "We're at a stalemate here; you cannot advance without a windbreak, and clearly you won't come out with these heavy weapons. You cannot move forwards and I cannot let you live."

"Is this the part where you offer to convert me to Chaos?" Crowlin replied. "I've heard such speeches before and they're rather uninspiring things. Besides, Comalrech, you seem to have misjudged the situation. I have something, you see, that you do not."

"And what is that, Knight Lord?"

"A stun grenade."

It detonated in their midst in a blast of pure, blinding white, dazzling Aetherwynd soldiers who cursed as they vainly grabbed at their eyes and ears. Crowlin was already moving, saw screaming into life as he hit the enemy's flank. The crew of the tripod-mounted plasma cannon were his first target, the saw slicing through the guts of the first, Crowlin's fist shattering the skull of the second, the third simply crushed beneath his immense weight.

Still half blinded, an Aetherwynd heretic flailed at him with his lasrifle, but Crowlin simply caught the stock of the weapon and smashed him away, before hurling the rune-coated weapon into another traitor, smashing his skull open. His saw screamed as he vaulted the sandbags surrounding the lascannon, slicing into the crew around it, tearing limbs and pulping organs with righteous fury.

Shouts of alarm came up from the soldiers around him as they realised his presence, and a lasbeam hopelessly scored off his helm. Crowlin laughed, the vox speakers in his helm distorting it to some kind of terrifying baying, before charging forward and slashing once more, tearing through flesh and flak armour. He thundered into their midst, fighting with lethal grace as he found himself surrounded. Here and there was the occasional hammering or scratching as soldiers tried to crack his armour with lasrifle stocks or stab through the joints with bayonets, but he was untouchable, invulnerable, armoured as well as a tank and far swifter than his enemies. It was the work of a moment to rip them to bloodied pieces, annihilating them utterly.

Only Comalrech remained, the rogue psyker backing away from the mountainous Knight Lord as he approached, saw blade gently spinning its holster. Panting, exhausted from his efforts beforehand, he could summon up nothing more than a gently breeze that cause the purity seals on Crowlin's armour to flutter.

"A piece of advice, Comalrech," Crowlin said. "Your blasphemous god may dictate that the winds of change are sacred, but specialising in calling up breezes? That is no good against Astartes."

Before the psyker could reply, Crowlin moved, grabbing the heretic's throat in an unshakeable vice grip.

"Especially not against the Sons of Thunder," he growled. "For we are the storm of the Emperor."

A squeeze was enough to kill Comalrech outright, crushing cartilage and bone and leaving the psyker a collapsed heap on the floor, choking on the ruin of his own throat.

Crowlin turned to face the heavy door of the vault, and the control panel by it. First he would retrieve his storm bolter, and then he would find a way to open it.

_Gently, the handsome prince opened the door to the princess' bedchamber, before bowing over her bed and waking her with a kiss upon her pale lips._

"-stard."

Something had changed in the air around her, something subtle that only her psyker's senses alerted her to. She must have been put into stasis.

She raised her bolt pistol, pointing it at the door, preparing to sell her life dearly; if they were going to breach, she would empty all but one shot and then turn the weapon upon herself. The codes would die with her.

"Lady Inquisitor?" a deep, harsh voice called over the intercom. "It is Knight Lord Crowlin here. I have deactivated the stasis field and I need you to open the vaults so we can make our escape."

"What about Comalrech?" she asked.

"He is dead, slain by my hand. Open the vaults, if you would be so good, Lady Inquisitor; we do not have much time," Crowlin replied. "I have a teleport homer in my possession, we will use it to return to the Oncoming Storm."

"I'm opening it now, Knight Lord," Ahlyss replied. "Hold on."

_The princess and the castle woken from the witch's terrible curse, the handsome prince took her in hand, lead her to his noble steed and together they rode away, to live happily ever after._

"Damnation," Crowlin growled as his press of the activation rune did nought to start the teleport homer into life. He muttered a machine canticle quickly as he re-entered the commands, before trying it once more. No signs of life in the machine.

"We must be too deep underground," Ahlyss said. "We need to get upwards."

"Agreed," Crowlin replied. "We will need to move swiftly."

He paused as the sound of shouts filtered down to his enhanced hearing, and his scarred, craggy face creased into a grin.

"Not just move swiftly," he said. "Fight hard."

His saw span into life, and he stepped forwards, using his bulk to shield Lady Inquisitor Ahlyss from any fire that the enemy would send his way, all too aware of her frailty compared to his superhuman bulk and Tactical Dreadnought Plate.

"For the Emperor, Lady Inquisitor," he said. "Now, let's die in a way to make the Him proud."

FIN


	4. Battle Hymn of the Imperium of Man

Battle Hymn of the Imperium of Man (sung to the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic)

I hath seen with my two eyes that he hath raised his wrathful hand

As he gathers by his side each of his many armies grand

With his Guardsmen and his Angels he shall triumphant stand

His armies shall not fail

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

His soldiers marcheth on

The xenos they shall crush and burn with their holy fire

And the heretic and mutant shall never escape His ire

We shall immolate their dead upon a holy pyre

His victory is assured

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

His soldiers triumph on

All of His glorious armies, they shall not flee or retreat

They shall crush the hated foe beneath their booted feet

And He shall smile His approval from atop His golden seat

For the day shall always be ours

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

His wrath shall not be stopped

We know that we shall always serve, for as long as we live

And we know that should He ask it then our lives we'll gladly give

For in death we shall gladly give our ultimate votive

In his name we shall die

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

We shall gladly sacrifice

And if you doubt and if you fear then you too shall burn

For there is one important lesson that all heretics must learn

If you abandon Him, His wrath's the only wage you'll earn

For heretics must die

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

Glory, glory ave imperator

His triumph marches on


	5. The Trial

The Trial

The prisoners were lead in in chains, one by one. Manacled and handcuffed, they shuffled into the immense chamber with as much pride and dignity as they could muster, dragging against the heavy iron balls that were clasped to their ankles. Branded and carved into their flesh were blasphemous runes, red raw despite the fact that they had been slashed into muscle and skin millennia beforehand. Over each of them, Aquilas had been burned.

The Terminator Armour clad figure at the head of the massive pulpit glowered upon them as they entered, escorted by two white armoured giants, boots clanking against the marble floor. The leader of the prisoners looked around the massive, ornate chamber they had entered, replete with stained glass depictions of the Emperor, golden statues of Vulkan and various saints, massive frescoes depicting His victories, and spat. He received a blow around his jaw for his trouble.

They were dragged to the foot of the pulpit, a place reserved for the most important Meets of the Sons of Thunder, facing a white armoured warrior who stood staring stonily ahead. He wore a cloak of sable, and a massive axe was placed with its pommel down on the floor, a power armoured hand on the top of its head holding it vertical.

"Solgarat Redblade," Denius Kelgin, chapter master of the Sons of Thunder announced from his place atop his pulpit. "You and your men, for want of a better word, come before us charged with crimes of the most heinous kind against the God Emperor of Mankind."

"And what of it?" Solgarat called from below. "We both know how this is going to end; forget this preposterous charade and kill us, unless you are too fearful to."

Denius ignored the protest, nodding to the cloaked, axe-bearing Marine by the traitors. On cue, Lord Executioner Abraham unrolled the parchment at his waist and announced; "Solgarat Redblade, leader of the traitors known as the Sons of Hate, you come here charged with the following crimes: blaspheming against the Emperor of Mankind, turning your back upon the Emperor of Mankind to pursue your own goals, consorting with daemons, worshipping false gods, mass murder of Imperial Citizens, the destruction of the worlds of Irken, Olrias, Thirallen and Chiralkos, aiding and abetting the heretic Lomoch Achmalin and the murder of Brother Captain Jeremiah of the Sons of Thunder Fifth Company."

Solgarat grinned.

"I did all these things, aye," he said. "I did it over more than two thousand years, and you caught me only now. What does that say about the effectiveness of your justice, I wonder?"

The mockery was ignored, and Abraham turned to the figure clad in blue power armour standing to one side.

"Chief Librarian Antius, have you the evidence?" he asked.

"That I do, Lord Executioner," Antius replied. He took a roll of parchment from where it stood next to him. "From this I read from the regimental record of the Twelfth Varseen; 'Leading the arch-traitors was a fiend clad in black Terminator Plate, who did wield two lightning claws of a mark this scribe recognises not, and slaughtered many brave men with the foul tools. It midst of battle, when the brave Colonel Antiolochus did try and engage the devil, he did proclaim: 'I am Solgarat Redblade, First Fiend of the Sons of Hate, and I shall see you undone.' From whenceforth, the foul being did launch into a tide of blasphemies that I shall not put to parchment for fear of corrupting it.'"

Solgarat snorted and shook his head.

"Is there any need for this mummer's farce?" he asked. "You know of my guilt. You know of all our guilt. Just kill us, you proud, pompous dogs, instead of playing this child's game!"

Abraham stepped forwards, his massive axe clacking against the floor, before he said; "We are the Emperor's justice. For His justice to be given properly, due process must be observed, even for the heretic, the traitor and the sinner."

"Pah," Solgarat growled. "You are idiots, each one of you."

"Chief Librarian, continue to present your evidence," Chapter Master Kelgin said. Antius nodded, and read on.

A list of crimes of the most hideous sort were read out, accounts of Solgarat's constant acts of barbarism, excess and heresy. The words of shell-shocked civilians, scribes and archivists, accounts from ancient battles, statements from Inquisition agents, even scrolls sent from the vaults of the Angels of Retribution. Antius' reading echoed across the massive, ornate chamber, clear for all present to hear. Occasionally, Solgarat or one of his men would try and interrupt, only to be beaten into silence by the two attendant guards. It was only when it came to the reading of the death of Brother Captain Jeremiah was Solgarat allowed to interrupt without being forced into silence.

"Perhaps I should tell you how your beloved brother really died," he said. There was a silence, the Sons looking at him with contempt in their eyes, and he chuckled. "I thought that you would be interested in such a thing. He died whimpering and screaming, entirely at my mercy as I tore his armour from him piece by piece. He wept like a child as I ripped his limbs off, and when I finally stabbed out his hearts he thanked me, yes, _thanked_ me for doing so. He was a pathetic, weak creature, and it embarrasses me to think that he was ever made a marine. Though considering the stock that he comes from, he was one of the better ones; the worms of False Emperor must be growing desperate if they think that you are good enough protection."

There was a long silence, before Kelgin said; "Lord Executioner, would you be so good as to add slander to the list of charges against Solgarat's name."

"Of course, Chapter Master," Abraham replied. He held out a hand, a servo-skull bobbed forwards, a quill clutched in the two tiny metal claws affixed to the bottom of the device's jaw. The Lord Executioner plucked the quill from the machine's grasp and, taking up the roll of parchment he held, made a note before returning it to the servo-skull.

Solgarat growled.

"Does nothing move you?" he asked. "I kill your brother, I besmirch the name that you care for so much, and you do nothing? Is there no anger in your hearts, no passion, no care? Are you made of ice? Show me some anger, you dogs! Or are you not actually Space Marines at all?"

"Be silent," Abraham ordered, tone moderated and flat.

"No," Solgarat said. "If you are the dogs who care for the Emperor, then it is no wonder that your beloved false Imperium dies by the day! Look at you all, playing your ridiculous little games of pomp and ceremony, thinking yourselves honourable simply because of this preposterous little show trial! You are pathetic, a joke, a-"

A gauntlet slapped down on the back of his skull, silencing him, and Abraham said; "You will be silent."

The Chaos marine chuckled.

"Go on," he growled. "Give in to your anger. Because I know you are angry. You want revenge, you want to take up that axe and strike me down right here and right now, don't you? Do it!"

"Does the defendant have any testimony to give?" Kelgin asked.

"Are you even listening to me?" Solgarat exclaimed. "What is wrong with you people? You claim to be of the storm, yet you seem to be made of stone! Does nothing move you?"

"Does the defendant have any testimony to give for his defence," Kelgin repeated.

"What do you want me to say?" Solgarat asked. "Do you want me to deny what you have all heard? How can I deny such a volume of evidence from the Corpse God's lapdogs? And would I want to deny it? I have killed, I have raped, I have murdered and stolen, all in the name of the Dark Gods, and I would gladly do so for another ten thousand years. We all know how this trial will end, so stop pretending that this is justice and just _kill me_!"

Kelgin nodded, before saying; "Solgarat Redblade, how do you plead?"

"Guilty, guilty guilty! What else can I plead? I am guilty! I will not repent, you know that."

Abraham and Antius nodded to their Chapter Master.

"Solgarat Redblade, by the Emperor of Mankind, abiding by His law, we of the Sons of Thunder find you guilty of the crimes of heresy, mass murder, blasphemy, betrayal, consorting with the unclean and slander," Kelgin announced. "Abraham Haisah, as Lord Executioner of the Son of Thunder, what is your sentence?" 

"The sentence I give is death," Abraham replied. He hefted his great axe in both hands and stepped up to one of Solgarat's men. "Thus is the might of His justice. None can escape it, none can fight it."

It swung down, the razor edge blade and the strength behind it slicing through vertebrae and muscle. Blood gushed from the stump, the traitor collapsing in a limp heap, viscera spreading across the marble floor, already beginning to thicken and dry as the Larramans cells worked even in death.

"This sanctum is purified by the blood of traitors," Abraham announced, stepping across to the next one, boots momentarily sticking against the gore-slicked floor. The axe sliced down. "Rejoice, for the cleansing shall never end."

Red spattered against Abraham's white armour as the blade fell once more.

"In your deaths you are sent to the Emperor for absolution or damnation," Abraham intoned as another life was sliced away. "And traitors are not found worthy for absolution."

Down went the axe, thumping wetly into the neck of a traitor before it cut clean through.

"Give thanks to Him that you take part in this purification," Abraham said as he ended another traitor's life. "Rejoice, for by your ending the domain of Man is secured yet further."

It cut through the next neck, and Abraham stepped up to Solgarat.

"Go on," the Chaos marine growled. "Kill me. Kill me in the way Khorne would want, send me to the Blood God."

Abraham shook his head and smiled, the expression looking out of place on a face as grim as his.

"I shall not use the axe for you," he said. "No, your punishment is far different."

#

Solgarat found himself in a pit, his chains removed. Dark granite walls towered around him, a single narrow corridor leading away from it. Along the side of each was metal plating, and snarling, yapping growls emanated from them.

"Your greatest crime, Solgarat Redblade," Abraham's voice came down from above him. "Is pride. You are a proud being, proud of your heresy, blasphemy and your thousands of acts of deviance. Even now, you are proud of what you have done. Thus, before we kill you, we must teach you humility. If I were to kill you myself in the Meet Chamber, you would have been slain by one of your betters, and this would not shame you. So we will kill you with those that are weaker."

"You are no better than me," Solgarat replied. "Enough games, you fool, just kill me or release me."

"On your knees," Abraham ordered.

"I will not kneel to your-"

There was a pair of bangs and pain exploded behind each of Solgarat's kneecaps. Muscles went limp and they collapsed underneath him, forcing him to all fours. The noise seemed to set whatever it was in the cages into a frenzy of growling, rattling furiously against the cage walls.

There was pain behind his knees, but no bleeding or maimed flesh; blister bolts. They were going to use the weapon of a novice to kill him.

"The creatures in these cages," Abraham said. "Are Troglodytes. They are native to Polyphemus. They are vicious creatures, but stupid and weak, not unlike yourself. One Space Marine could kill hundreds with ease. They will be what ends you."

Solgarat tried to stand before a blister bolt slammed into one of his knees and forced him into a crawling position.

"You will die by the hands of the weak, prostrate and helpless," Abraham said. "They will bite and scratch you apart, and you will be entirely unable to fight back."

The doors of the cage slid open and the Troglodytes emerged. Flattened, piglike noses, pale greenish skin, wiry forms the size of a human, fingers tipped with vicious, clawlike nails. Overlarge mouths split into feral snarls as their prey came into view, beady red eyes filled with pure viciousness glaring at him.

Solgarat kicked at one, knocking it away with a yowl, and he grabbed another by the throat before another blister bolt exploded against his arm and loosed his grip. He tried to stand as a claw raked along his skin, drawing blood before a bolt forced him down.

"The path," Abraham's voice rang out. "Crawl along it and find absolution."

Even unarmed and unarmoured, Solgarat would have been able to deal with the creatures, but whenever he tried to stand a blister bolt slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. A bite tore a chunk of flesh from his arm, and another went for his neck before he pushed it away. They were all around him, his and scratching as they leapt towards him, vicious fury behind every strike. There was no way he could win this, not with Haisah raining fire upon him whenever he tried to stand upright.

Half running, half crawling, all attempts to stand thwarted by the aim of the Lord Executioner, he made it to the gap, the Troglodytes following behind in a vicious tide of discoloured green. He kicked desperately as he pulled himself away, ignoring the pain in his feet as the Troglodytes bit and scratched at them.

Pain, he could bear, but this was…humiliating. He was on his knees before the most pathetic creatures he had ever faced, but each time he tried to stand he was slapped back down. Damnation upon every one of these weakling dogs, he would die standing!

"ENOUGH!" he roared, the sheer volume driving the creatures assailing him back for a moment. He pushed himself upwards. "I AM SOLGARAT REDBLADE, AND BY THE DARK-"

A bolt slammed into his throat, and he fell back, gasping and choking desperately as the Troglodytes advanced once more. A vicious kick knocked a few away, but the rest came on, Solgarat throwing them back with a swipe of his arm.

"Crawl, heretic," Abraham's voice came from above. "Crawl to absolution."

Solgarat forced his way along the winding passageway, narrow granite scraping against superhumanly muscled shoulders, the branded Aquilas burned onto them painfully raw against the rough stone. Always following him were the Troglodytes, an animal tide of hate that scratched and bit.

Suddenly, be broke through, out of the granite path he had been forced along, into an open space.

"You have come to absolution, heretic," Abraham's voice said. "Rejoice."

Absolution. Did that mean…? What game were they playing with him here?

And then Solgarat saw the statue. Carved from hard granite, an ornately armoured giant upon a great throne stared down upon him, one hand covered in a great claw, the other holding a blade on the pommel, tip resting on the floor.

Despite himself, Solgarat laughed. All this, and this was the game they were playing with him. Here he was, after millennia of depravity, cruelty and heresy, prostrate before the Golden Throne before he was executed by a mob of the weak.

He cackled as the Troglodytes came in, ceasing his struggles.

A bite tore a chunk of his leg away, claws scratched as his flesh, pain erupted as enemies grabbed and slashed away at him. But still he laughed, the sheer, preposterous hilarity of the situation somehow pushing him past the agony of being eaten alive.

Solgarat Redblade died at the hands of the Sons of Thunder. He died before the Emperor, abased before Him, all his pride taken away. And he laughed, because the bastards, for all their ridiculous ceremony, had beaten him. The Sons of Thunder had torn him apart, and they had won.

Dark Gods damn them, but Solgarat couldn't imagine a funnier way to die.


	6. Remorseless

Good old fashioned Titany fun...

Remorseless

The lift arm whirred as it carried its cargo upwards through the air of the hangar bay, the noise barely discernible over the din of chanting servitor choirs and techpriests performing their detestations. Its cargo waited patiently, shifting occasionally as they stood, but content to let the journey go without incident. There was no conversation; there was no need for it.

Finally, the platform docked at a great wall of indigo adamantium, and a panel slid aside, allowing the small party entry. One by one, they filed in, into the realm of cramped metal corridors and twisting mazes of ladders and pipes.

Curatio, Ergos and Yule headed upwards, Zeffan perched on Curatio's shoulder, the cherubim's black and grey feathered wings flapping rapidly to compensate for his weight upon Curatio's shoulder. Gurron clambered up a hatch almost as soon as he entered, servo-harness' arms folded behind his back while his augmetic limbs pulled him up. KR1350 and LF7384 both went to their assigned stations, the assault cannons replacing their left arms loaded and primed for combat.

Curatio and his three companions reached the cockpit and climbed into their command chairs. With care, Ergos removed his two bionic eyes, leant fully back into his chair, a bundle of wires plugging themselves into his eye sockets. Yule gasped with momentary pain as a clump of needles hissed from his chair and embedded themselves in the back of his skull, already beginning to feed data directly into his brain.

Curatio leant back into the command chair, closed his eyes and let the neuro plugs work their way into various nerve centres around his body. Almost immediately he felt it, the burning rage of the Remorseless, clawing up within his mind as the wedding process began. He did as he had always done, let it break upon his mental defences and then pushed it back, overpowering it and forcing it down.

His Imperial Majesty's Titan Remorseless powered into life, spotlights flicking on as it did. Heat roared from its plasma drives, scorching the wings of a nearby flock of cherubim, interrupting the hymns that the vox casters that replaced their mouths were playing.

He clicked the titan's vox caster into life with a thought, and shuffled through the frequencies to find Gurron's.

"Is it ready?" he asked.

"Indeed," Gurron replied, his harsh augmetic voice grating even further through the static of the vox. "The machine spirits of all engines are content, weapon systems are fully prepared for combat and the void shield generator simply needs to anointed with holy oils to be operational."

"Good work, Gurron," Curatio said. "Be ready to activate it when I give the command."

"Affirmative, Princeps," Gurron said. "Gurron out."

"Remorseless, this is Imperial command," another voice crackled over the vox. "Come in, Remorseless."

"This is the Remorseless, awaiting orders," Curatio said.

"Remorseless, are you ready to drop?" the vox operator at the other end asked.

"Affirmative," Curatio replied.

"Get going," the vox op replied. "Command out."

The Remorseless stomped across the bay in three steps into the waiting doors of the deployment pod, colossal parchment prayer sheets and victory records flapping as its walked. Personnel cleared out of the god machine's way as the Reaver Titan's massive feet left dents in the adamantium floor. It stopped at the hangar doors, and another huge set of adamantium doors slid shut behind it.

With a jolt, the transport pod was loosed from the huge guts of the Omnissah's Glory, the retros and thrusters mounted on its side letting it fall gently and slowly, guiding it towards its target. Squadrons of lightning fighters patrolled around it, protecting their precious cargo from enemy attack.

The descent took half an hour, and finally the pod touched down, within a perimeter of rockrete walls. One of the bay doors slid aside and the Remorseless stepped free of its confines, the ground cracking gently beneath its feet.

The first thing that Curatio noticed was the sheer volume of men and machines arraying themselves on and behind the walls.

"I see Hive Fleet Manticore is going to be a big one," Ergos murmured, no doubt surveying the scene with the hundreds of sensors embedded into the titan.

"Naturally," Curatio replied.

Manticore was a splinter fleet of Leviathan, one of those feasting and warring with the orks that inhabited the Octavius sector. After a series of victories, the splinter fleet had gorged itself and, now almost trebled in size, had broken off from the war with the orks to strike out at the Imperium, hoping to break through the ring of fortress worlds that kept the xenocidal war contained within the sector.

The lifter craft that had carried the Remorseless down from orbit powered its retros with a whine and began to slowly force its way upwards, while the god machine stepped into position, guided by a vox operator with a pair of burning flares.

"Gurron," Curatio called down the vox. "Activate the void shields."

"Affirmative," Gurron said. "May the Omnissah's will be done."

With a crackle, the void shields expanded out from the titan, lightning dancing in the field around the massive machine. Curatio span the gatling cannon on the left arm and double checked the ammunition stocks, rotated the apocalypse missile rack mounted on the titan's upper back and flexed the fingers of its massive power fist. He was ready for combat.

All they had to do first was wait.

#

The swarm came. It came as a living tide of chitinous flesh, unstoppable, implacable and unwavering. It was not millions of beasts fighting. It was a single organism, made up of millions of cells.

Before it stood Fort Contemptuous. Rockrete walls, bristling with heavy weapons emplacements, were manned by hundreds of soldiers, all of them firing their weapons against the encroaching tide of alien death. The heavy bolters mounted on the walls roared into life, while behind them basilisks, griffons and manticores set the sky aflame with ordnance, hundreds of shells flying up into the air before crashing down with thunderous effect.

Great chunks were torn from the swarm, but it did not falter. More gaunt organisms simply rushed forwards even faster, filling the gaps in the swarm. It would not stop. It could not stop.

Finally, it hit the walls, thousands of gaunts and genestealers throwing themselves forward onto the rockrete, attempting to scramble up it even as lasfire and heavy bolter rounds tore through the swarm. More and more of them, climbing up over the corpses of their fellows, determined to fight the enemy.

"Carnifex assault organisms, closing on western wall, one hundred metres," Yule announced from his command chair. His crano-implants buzzed and whirred as they fed tactical data into his brain, the wires plugging into his chair warm to the touch.

"Acknowledged," Curatio announced. With but a thought, he twisted Remorseless' colossal torso to face the threat. Hundred of camera-eyes viewed the swarm, their lenses picking out the detail on each and every organsim. "Targeted?"

"Targeting," Ergos said. "Targeted. Ready to fire."

Curatio Lonnat nodded, the reticules crisscrossing his vision zooming in on the specified tyranid beasts, raised the arm of his Reaver titan and fired.

The gatling cannon roared into life, sending hundreds of battlecannon shells screaming through the air to detonate all around the carnifexes, smashing carapace and pulverising dozens of tyranid creatures sprinting along past them. As the dust cleared, they were gone, nothing but scorch marks and gore marking where they had been.

"Neutralised," Ergos announced. He turned his head, searching for a new target, the weighty plugs placed into his eye sockets blinking and blipping as they fed data straight into his cortex. "Searching for new target."

"Excellent," Curatio murmured. His fist curled up, and the machine spirit's wrath began to boil within his breast. He could feel it, part of him yearning to step forward, over these walls and pulverise the enemy one on one.

He fought it down, pushing it aside. He had heard terrible tales of those princeps who were too weak and let the machine spirit of their titans overwhelm them. Instead, he focused that wrath, letting loose a burst with his gatling cannon and shredding yet more tyranid organisms, blasting them into a gore filled, firey oblivion.

Above him a tyranid bioship forced its way above the fortress, even as the defence lasers tore chunks from it. It great fleshy belly opened and suddenly thousands of mycetic spores dropped from within its bowels.

With a roar, a battery of hydras behind the Remorseless opened up, lacing the air with autocannon rounds. Within moments, hundreds of the spores were torn apart, but more and more continued to pour down, threatening to overwhelm the Imperial defenders by trapping them between two waves of aliens.

The Remorseless turned its gatling cannon skywards and fired, sending a stream of battlecannon shells tearing upwards, tearing apart hundreds of the pods in a matter of seconds.

"Harridan!" Ergos suddenly yelled. Curatio flicked onto the sensor that had seen the massive airborne assault organism, seeing it swoop over the walls, gargoyles unfolding from their perches on its massive belly.

He turned the gatling cannon down and let loose a brace of shots at the thing, the shells exploding against its chitinious armour, but failing to slow it.

"Incoming," Yule announced. "I don't think the cannon's going to stop it."

Even as the hydras turned their cannons on it, it swooped on, roaring a challenge.  
>Curatio activated the titan's power fist, lightning crackling around it, drawing it back and bracing it, still pouring fire into the harridan as it powered towards him. The creature gave a scream of pain as a shell managed to penetrate is carapace and exploded within it, but with a final beat it swooped forward, curling up and extending the massive scything talons in order to tear at the armour of the Remorseless. It smashed past the void shields through its sheer bulk, roaring in rage and ready to rip the titan asunder.<p>

The Remorseless' power fist swept upwards and slammed into it, smashing through its armour as if it were paper. The harridan gave a shriek of agony toppled down, wings snapped and broken.  
>Before it could get up and attack again, one of the Remorseless' massive feet stamped down and smashed it into the ground.<p>

"This is command, come in Remorseless," the vox crackled. "Come in."

"This is the Remorseless," Curatio replied, turning the gatling cannon on the swarm. "Awaiting orders."

"All units are falling back to main keep," the vox op said. "Cover our retreat."

"Affirmative," Curatio replied.

The soldiers began to retreat to a second set of barricades, the frontal walls already overwhelmed by the living tide of tyranids.

The gatling cannon opened fire on the Tyranids swarming over the walls towards the barricades, a wall of explosive death stopping all but the most durable from getting through, and, badly battered and dazed, they were easy prey for the guns of the assembled guardsmen.

As long as he could keep his fire up, Curatio knew that they had a chance of victory. There was not a chance of the Tyranids breaking through his fire, no matter how many shots they fired.

That was when the western wall exploded.

Chunks of rockrete the size of a land car exploded upwards, some of them smashing onto the Remorseless' void shields and sending them crackling. With a roar, a trygon ripped upwards, armoured, snake-like tail thrashing wildly, hundreds of gaunts pouring through the tunnel, tearing into the men arranged behind the barricades, swarming over tanks and filling them with searing acid.

The trygon led the charge, the assault beast smashing aside tanks and men, intent on reaching the Remorseless. From the other side, carnifexes and gaunts armed with varieties of bioweapons lined up within range and began to pour fire into the Remorseless, acids, poisons, even giant, gnawing insects slamming into its shields.

"Void shields are losing power," Gurron's voice said urgently over the microphone.

"Keep them holding, Gurron," Curatio said, twisting the titan's arm to obliterate the gun beasts that were attempting to wear the shields away.

"I shall try," Gurron replied. "Though I don't think they can-blessed omnissah!"

Curatio felt it immediately, the void shield suddenly dropping out of existence as the trygon smashed through it. It grabbed onto the Remorseless' leg, pulling itself upwards along the massive limb, the god machine twisting in an attempt to shake it off, stomping down on the ground as it tried to do so and crushing dozens of tyranids in the process.

With a sudden twist of its ankle, a movement Curatio had never known his machine be able to do before, the trygon was torn free and was sent tumbling along the ground, before coming to a sudden rest by digging its claws into the ground. It snarled, coiled its tail behind it and leapt forwards, a snake striking.

It was met head on by the Remorseless' power fist.

Its pulverised corpse twisted and flailed madly as it tumbled through the air, smashing into other organisms and crushing them as well, but the damage was done. The tyranids had broken through the walls and were already tearing down the gates of Fort Contemptuous' keep, even as fire shredded the aliens that poured through.

"This is Remorseless, come in command," Curatio intoned.

"This is command," came the voice. "State what you want, Remorseless."

"Fort Contemptuous is overwhelmed," Curatio said. "Request permission for search and destroy on leader organisms."

There was a pause, and then; "Permission granted. Emperor's blessings, Remorseless. Command out."

"Gurron," Curatio ordered. "How are the void shields?"

"I'm still trying to repair them," Gurron said. "They're in a bad shape."

"Do your best," Curatio said. "If we find the dominatrix without them up then we're in trouble."

"I shall do my best. Gurron out."

The Remorseless turned and stomped away from the ruined walls of Fort Contemptuous, each footfall crushing tyranids as they swarmed around it, determined to get a purchase on its feet and scramble up.

It was time to hunt.

#

The scream roared across the flat dusty hillside Fort Contemptuous stood upon, one so loud that it drowned out even the noisy rain of biomunitions slamming against the Remorseless' armour. It was produced by the vocal chords of a creature that was large enough to topple buildings and wipe out entire battalions of soldiers. A creature large enough and strong enough to even be a threat to a Reaver Titan.

"We've found it," Curatio muttered. "The big game."

As they rounded the hill they saw it, the dominatrix, the super-organism that led the swarm.

It towered over the other tyranid beasts assembled with it, over a hundred metres high. Four of its legs were massive talons, while a colossal venom cannon was held by its remaining pair of arms. Its carapace was pitted and scarred from what looked like hundreds of battles, but it held firm. Its elongated head, coated in thick chitin, and squashed into its neck, swiveled as it saw the Remorseless approach, and it gave a roar of triumph. No doubt it had been looking for the thing that had been wreaking havoc amongst its forces for the last half hour.

Curatio smiled grimly. Somehow this reminded him of the entertainment simulators he played with as a child, where in the final sequence there would always be an extra powerful foe to defeat. This was all too similar.

Its venom cannon fired with roaring hiss, spraying a stream of bile and acid into theRemorseless' void shields, their sheer volume almost threatening to overwhelm it.

The Remorseless raised its gatling cannon to retaliate, sending a stream of shells smashing into it. With a thought, Curatio sent the remaining apocalypse missiles in the rack streaking forwards, all of them homing onto the colossal tyranid. Even though it managed to dodge one, the other eight hit home. Plasma warheads were detonated, sending burst of azure fire burning over its carapace. The dominatrix shrieked and stumbled back, its armour scorched and bubbling, but it was by no means dead.

It suddenly powered forwards, smashing straight into the Remorseless, knocking through its battered void shields. The gatling cannon continued to fire, but it ignored the damage, determined to strike a killing blow on the Remorseless.

One of its massive talon-feet slammed forwards, but the Remorseless' power fist was up and grabbing it. Instead the tyranid organism thrust is head forwards, its massive jaws trying to find purchase on the Remorseless' chestplate. Its teeth hooked onto the golden aquila emblazoned on the Remorseless' and it pulled back. With a scream of tearing metal, both combatants stumbled back, sparks and oil spurting around the exposed inner workings of the Remorseless.

Curatio gave a gasp of pain and anger, snarling as he felt a searing, burning agony blossom across his chest. Almost reflexively, he swiped forward with the power fist, smashing into the side of the dominatrix's head. It stumbled away, ichor pouring from its shattered jaw. The Remorseless slammed its power fist down on the thing's back, sending it stumbling further away and out of reach.

For a moment, tyranid and titan faced each other, the Remorseless aiming its gatling cannon, the dominatrix snarling and panting. Suddenly it leapt again, one of its talons slamming into the cannon arm and scoring a deep cut across the metal.

Curatio snarled as he felt all the feeling go out of his right arm. Hydraulic fluids spurted from the massive pistons that moved it, and almost immediately it ground to a halt, emergency systems freezing it in place.

"Gurron!" Curatio ordered. "Fix that!"

"On it," Gurron replied.

The techpriest scrambled out of a service hatch, activating the magnets on the tips of his augmetic fingers and toes and climbing up the Remorseless' like some mechanical monkey. Sprays of venom and furiously hissing balls of acid splattered against the armour next to him, and he prayed to the Omnissah that he would make it to the arm in order to carry out his repairs.

Finally he reached it, and balanced precariously along the massive arm, his servo harness held out to help him balance. He found the cut, stabbed a rappel spike into the metal and immediately slid down it, rocking and twisting to stop himself from swinging loose. Muttering canticles and detestations he welded slashed pistons and damaged machinery back together with his plasma cutter while the two giants dueled around him.

"It's done," he said into the vox, already scrambling upwards and climbing along the arm. "I'm off."

As he clambered down below the Remorseless' arm, he glanced down.

"Frak," he cursed.

Hundreds, if not thousands of tyranids were scrambling up the Remorseless' legs, a chittering, frenzied wave of alien death.

"KR1350, LF7384, on me now!" Gurron roared, receiving a flat "Affirmative," from the other end.

The two servitors clambered out of a pair of maintainance hatches, their assault cannons powering up with a whine. Then, with a sound like hundreds of hammers slamming into thick blocks of metal, the two servitors mowing down the approaching swarm. Even as spent shells and the corpses of xenos rained downwards, more came slowly pushing further and further forwards. Gurron estimated that they had minutes before the swarm completely overwhelmed them. He powered his plasma cutter up and sent bolts of burning heat into the swarm, burning even more to cinders.

"Curatio," Gurron voxed. "We haven't much time. Deal with that thing."

Curatio didn't reply.

#

The dominatrix roared as it swiped at the reaver's command cockpit, snarling and trying to clamp its shattered jaws around it, determined to wrench it off. The Remorseless stepped back and the creature stumbled, losing its grip. The power fist smashed into its back and it roared in pain, stumbling away, spitting and snarling viciously.

"Curatio." Gurron's voice crackled into his vox. "We haven't much time. Deal with that thing."

The power fist swiped down again, but the tyranid dodged to the right, as Curatio hoped. Before it could recover, he jabbed the Remorseless' gatling cannon forward straight into the creature's mouth and fired.

The swarm broke.

Suddenly robbed of the guiding of power of their leader-organism, the creatures panicked, reverting to their animalistic instincts. Some turned on their fellows, while others simply fled away from the colossal, terrifying sight of the Remorseless.

From his place on the Remorseless' hip, Gurron watched as the tyranids began panic and flee or attack one another. Yet they were mowed down by the servitor's assault cannons all the same.

"This is the Remorseless," Curatio annouced into the vox. "Come in command."

"Command here," a vox operator replied on the other end of the line.

"The dominatrix has been eliminated," Curatio said. "We have a win down here."

"Good job, Remorseless," the vox op said. "Get ready for extraction."

"Affirmative," Curatio said. "We'll be ready."

As, the heavy lander craft that carried the Reaver Titan voxed in to confirm its arrival, the sun began to set behind the ruins of Fort Contemptuous. It would be rebuilt, garrisoned and fortified doubly.

And, once the repairs upon it were finished, the Remorseless would move on. For the crew, this was just another battle.

Another battle in an eternity of war.


	7. The Emperor's People

A walk through the streets of a shrine world.

Warning: Contains scenes that are potentially disturbing or upsetting for readers of a more sensitive disposition; therefore, this story by itself will be rated M.

The Emperor's People

0600 hours and the prayer hailers blared into life, welcoming the new day that dawned over Lorenzo III by blurting out exhortations to the Divine Emperor of Man. Each one gave some different prayer or catechism, every speaker fighting to drown out the noise of the others, and the result that rang across the shrine-city of St Lucia's Tears was a garbled, deafening mess of exultation. If one strained one's ears to try and pick out the words that rang off the many crenulations, gargoyles and holy symbols that adorned each building, you could make out the most common words; 'Emperor,' 'Terra' 'Lord'; but anything else was a fool's game.

Halben pulled himself out of his small sleeping pallet as one of the speakers on the side of his hab, placed obnoxiously close to his window, began to bellow one of the Catechisms of Fury. He slammed it shut, enough to muffle the din at least a bit, and pulled himself out of his sleeping pallet with a yawn.

Before anything else, he prostrated himself before the shrine to the Emperor that was in his small bedroom. It was a simple thing; a portrait of Him resplendent upon the Golden Throne in full battle armour, a claw covering one hand and a sword held in the other, patrician features glowering sternly from above the ornate gorget he wore. The only other things that occupied the table were a small selection of parchment prayer sheets and the statuette of Alicia Domenica. The small statue of the Matron Saint of the Adepta Sororitas was a somewhat unusual one; instead of being clad in full power armour and carrying a bolter or sword, as she was usually depicted, the small porcelain sculpture simply had her clad in a simple shift, both her hands held out as if to welcome or embrace an approaching member of the faithful. He remembered that Taylis had always liked that one.

He finished his prayers by asking the Emperor to look after her, rose and prepared breakfast. Ration-grade instant recaff was spooned into a china mug with an Aquila painted on it before water from the kettle was poured in, and he spread some thin, anaemic grox-fat butter over the slightly stale bread he took from the cupboard above his small kitchen's counter. Outside, the relentless dirge that praised the Emperor and His saints continued, now accompanied to the sound of St Lucia's Tears beginning to wake as priests and prophets took to the streets to add their own ranting to the din.

Halben locked the door to his small, cramped hab as he stepped into the dingy corridors of the block. He squeezed past the stooped, half-rotten cleaning servitor that had been methodically sweeping the floor with a broom that replaced its lower left arm in neat circuits of the floor, a role it had filled for the last five years. Day in and day out it had carried out that task, relentless and utterly mindless, completely unaware of the world around it. Halben remembered once that it had been knocked to the floor, and it had walked sideways in an almost comical manner, brush flailing at empty air; he had put it to its feet after he saw that, feeling sorry for the thing even though it lacked the capability for feeling sorry for itself.

He opened the door to the street, pausing only make some quick abasements to the shrine to St Lucia that occupied the hab-block's foyer, before being caught in the relentless flow of people that formed the shrine-city's traffic.

He navigated the crowds with the natural ease of one who had done it for every day of his life, one hand held loosely in the pocket where his credits and keys were to ward them from the attentions of any pickpockets or petty thieves. Around him, crowds of pilgrims and the faithful jostled, a living sea of humanity with its own unique swells and tides as people filtered into and out of the streets. Every sense here was under constant assault; sunlight gleamed off the gold leaf an filigree that adorned every building, and conversations had to be had by shouting at one another in order to be heard over the din of the many prayer hailers. Everywhere you were you were jostled by countless others, and the air was thick with the cloying smoke from a thousand censers, filling it with a constant, pungent scent and coating the tongue in an oily layer of sticky bitterness.

Halben broke into one of the great squares of the city, ringed on every side by cathedrals and churches, while stalls sold rosaries, prayer beads and relics to those willing to buy. And on crudely built wooden stages, surrounded by crowds, were the preachers.

"REPENT!" one wrinkled man bellowed through crooked, yellowing teeth, a ragged white beard flowing from his chin to trail at the floor along with the ornate robes he wore. One of his eyes was a milky white, but the other glowed with wild fervour, glaring out at the crowd as a gnarled hand held onto a microphone with a white-knuckled grip, the other wielding a burning brand. A thick rubber cable, patched in places, lead to the back of the skull of the amplivox servitor that followed him, the cyborg's jaw ripped away to be crudely replaced by a speaker while a much larger subwoofer distended its stomach into a disk of matt-black plastic. "Repent your sins and give yourself to the Emperor! Be cleansed by his holy flames!"

He pointed out at the crowd with his torch, one good eye staring madly at them before he cried; "Who here among you desires purification! A cleansing of all your sin?"

Half a dozen individuals pushed their way forwards out of the masses before him, each one of them calling and begging to be the first to have the honour of being cleansed. The priest's assistants, rag-clothed devotees with holy parchments stitched into their skin, helped them up, hoisting jerry cans filled with blessed promethium over their heads before pouring the liquid onto the overjoyed pilgrims.

"Do you see this, my brothers and sisters?" the preacher asked. "Such faith! Such devotion! Rejoice that we might be blessed with the company of those so keen to give their lives for their beloved Emperor!"

He touched his brand to each of them, the pilgrims igniting with a whumph and joyous screams of agonised rapture as they fell to their knees, six overjoyed torches sending smoke into the sky.

At another stage, a woman clad only in parchments and carrying a hammer with its heads shaped to look like the snarling beaks of an Aquila, topped with a smoking censer, was yelling at her own crowd.

"The witch!" she declared. "The witch is always among us! Every second of every day, the witch collaborates with the traitor and the heretic in order to enact the downfall of mankind! Every second of every day, the witch plots and schemes to destroy all that we love in the Emperor's great Imperium! And there is only one thing that can possibly stop their foul machinations; constant vigilance!"

This got a roar of angry approval from the crowd, many of them raising their fists in zealous support.

"Tell me now!" the preacher continued, hefting the weapon she carried in both hands and leaving a trail of incense in its wake. Her arms were thin from fasting, Halben noticed, and marked with scars carved in the shapes of various holy symbols. "Tell me now where we may find the witch, that we might strike them down and safeguard this world!"

"It's him!" someone in the crowd yelled, pointing at another member of the mass of people before the preacher, too caught up in religious fervour to care for such things as reason. "He's a witch! He's a sorcerer, he communes with evil!"

"No!" came a desperate protest. "I swear, I serve the Emperor and the Emperor alone!"

"Lies!" came the reply, before the preacher interrupted with; "Enough of your deception, herald of blasphemy! Bring him to me, that we might judge him guilty!"

The crowd fell upon their victim in a vicious, screaming tide of fists, kicks and mad fury. They beat at him, an overwhelming wave of hateful madness, bearing him under the surface before the current of people drew him up and deposited him before the preacher. He was already a mess of cuts, bruises and broken teeth, skin turning purple and bloodied, and he was unable to stand, instead whimpering wretchedly for mercy. The preacher showed none, her hammer slamming down on his skull with a wet, crunching squelch while the crowd bellowed their approval.

"He is not the only one!" she called to them, her assertion quieting the crowd. "He is not the only one among us who seeks to spread blasphemy and unbelief! There are others, always others who aim to undermine the Emperor! Together, we the faithful may find them and destroy them!"

Halben moved on before the crowd might notice him. He knew that in a matter of minutes the Arbites would be along to break the crowd up and silence the woman raving at them before she could kill too many, but in the meantime he knew that attracting their attention was a death sentence. He'd been in one of those crowds before, when a preacher not dissimilar to the one on the stage just a moment ago had been inciting them to be vigilant against the predations of the heretic, when some poor sod had been accused. Somehow, Halben had got too caught up in the collective madness of the mob to stop himself, had joined the crowd kicking and stamping on a screaming man who had begged for mercy even as his fellows bayed in animalistic hatred and killed him with their bare hands. Sometimes, he found himself thinking back on that moment when he had completely lost himself to the will of the mob, and it had been the cause of more than a few hours of lost sleep.

He pushed forwards through the crowds, past groups of chanting flagellants who beat and whipped themselves as they sang praises to the Emperor, a skeletal monk who proclaimed that he had subsisted on holy water and a stale breadcrust for every day for the last ten years and that it brought him close to Him On Terra. There were a pair of priests arguing theology on another stage, a debate that would surely erupt into violence, while there was great crowd singing hymns to the conducting of another preacher. Halben's sandaled feet slapped against the flagstones that paved the square as he hurried onwards, the slabs inlaid with brass prayers that had been worn into incomprehensibility by the tread of tens of thousands.

The wailing of trumpets suddenly cut through the din of chanted prayers, half a dozen of them carried by a flock of fluttering cherubim. The fusions of infant and machine darted and bobbed above an immense palanquin carried by dozens of bent-backed servitors, the vox-casters implanted in their mouths droning yet more catechisms to add to the noise around them. The cargo they bore was a hugely ornate thing, easily a good ten metres across and wrought with gold leaf, silks and finery. Braziers standing on the top and censers hanging off its side sent choking, incense-infused smoke drifting around it in a great cloud, while massive holy books occupied lecterns, from which priests and preachers read, each one trying to drown out the others around them with sheer noise. Towards the rear, in an ornately wrought golden throne, sat one of the shrine-world's many cardinals, his large stomach covered with sumptuous velvet robes of office. One hand held a staff tipped with the Aquila, the other simply resting on a pudgy knee, he surveyed the crowds that began to push towards him calmly, a mariner upon a sea of fervour.

Despite the press that was seething towards him, the palanquin was not overwhelmed, and as he craned his neck Halben could see figures in silver power armour holding it back; sisters of the Order of the Iron Heart, no doubt, assigned from the Covent-Fortress they used as their base on Lorenzo III to guard this man.

There were a series of rapid bangs as bolters were fired skywards to warn the crowd of worshippers of the consequences of getting too zealous in their adulation. Halben stayed only a moment, before pushing his way through the throng towards his destination, taking advantage of the diversion the cardinal and his escort would provide to make it through while it was somewhat thinner. He remembered once talking to a pilgrim from a hive world who had said that making their way through the tight, ganger-infested streets of their home city was nothing compared to navigating the living ocean of the faithful, and he had to agree.

He pushed his way against the flow of the jostling crowd as they surged forwards to see the cardinal, slipping past knots of people with practiced ease. His destination was close, the great, arched structure of St Lucia's Cathedral in sight. And he would have to be quick, too; Halben had seen the course that the palanquin and its escort had been sedately plotting, one that would send it straight to the great building. In a few minutes, the place would be packed by those wishing to hear the man speak, and Halben would have no way of getting in.

Instead, he hurried through the crowd, practically running up the steps and through the massive doorways of the cathedral, each one carved with scenes depicting the Emperor and the Primarchs victorious over xenos and heretics. There was already a crowd flowing in and out, and he received more than a few pointed looks for wearing working clothes instead of the usual robes that most of the pilgrims here wore, but he ignored them.

Instead, he worked his way through them, pushing open a wooden side door with a portrait of Saint Dovathin slaying the Drake of Aldun painted on it, and into one of the smaller side corridors of the cathedral. The tapers he used for his duties as a candlelighter would be waiting for him in the locker that he stored them in, and after that, his day would begin proper. As he had done every day without fail for the last twenty years of his life, he would light the candles of the Cathedral.

At least such a job was more restful than his walk to work.


End file.
